Being Remade
A/N: Disclaimer's in the first chapter. MAJOR character death in this chapter. You are warned.
/Telepathy/
[[Parseltongue]]
**Private thoughts**
(_)(_)(_)(_)(_)(_)
August 2, 1992 Hogsmeade
Dumbledore had not been having his usual, relaxed summer. Things had continued to go awry at the school even when the place was all but empty save for himself, Filch, and Hagrid. The stairs and the gargoyle that guarded his office misbehaved all the time. His food and drink were wrong as often as not. The list went on and on. And that was just what was going wrong inside the castle. Dumbledore refused to contemplate everything that had gone wrong outside of it.
Just thinking about Black and his alliance, or the Queen showing up unscheduled, was enough to make Dumbledore steam at the ears. Knowing that the Queen had been seen leaving the Wizengamot with Black was enough to make him want to scream. Worse, no one seemed to be paying any heed to his carefully worded cautions. To put it bluntly, Dumbledore was well on his way to being ignored or worse, forgotten. He had no idea how to fix it, either.
Frustrated with life in general, Dumbledore had opted to go for a stroll in Hogsmeade. The weather was unusually fine this early August day and a walk might do his mood some good. It had worked, too. A little past noon and four stores later, and Dumbledore was in a much better mood. He was also completely unaware of being watched.
Barty had been lurking around Hogsmeade since he had been given his assignment. He'd managed to buy some polyjuice potion from Knockturn Alley, allowing him to walk in broad daylight with none the wiser. Unfortunately, Dumbledore had been distinctly absent. Barty had been considering which of his plans to use to lure the man out of Hogwarts when he showed up on his own.
Barty immediately ducked into a side alley and summoned Winky, forcing her to go to Voldemort with the news that they would be on-site within a half-hour. Barty then bided his time, waiting for Dumbledore to approach the side alley he'd ducked down. It would be a simple enough affair to grab the Headmaster. After all, Barty wasn't after a fight with him. Whether Dumbledore remained caught was entirely up to his fellow Death Eaters and Lord Voldemort.
Barty had chosen his polyjuiced form with a fast snatch-and-run in mind. The less intimidating he looked, the more likely the old coot would be to presume he was helpless and thus drop whatever guard he had. And what was more harmless than a little old lady nearly as old as Dumbledore himself?
Eventually, Dumbledore got close enough that Barty was able to close the remaining distance in a fast lunge, triggering the portkey in his pocket at the same time as he got a death-grip on Dumbledore's arm. They were both whisked away before Dumbledore could do more than squawk, the sound lost in the general hubbub of the town. Without even the sound of apparation to garner attention, the two men disappeared unremarked.
August 2, Little Hangleton
This day had been very carefully prepared for. While they no longer had Snape's services, several Death Eaters were competent potion makers. As such, a number of potions had been prepared. One of them was to be used on Dumbledore. It was the only viable way to keep Dumbledore under control until Lord Voldemort was fully reborn. At least, it was the only way if they didn't want to have every Death Eater attending Lord Voldemort's rebirth. Since they needed to commit most of their forces to the Azkaban raid, full attendance was extremely impractical. There had been something of a lottery to decide who got to attend other than Barty. Runcorn, Parkinson, and Bletchley had won the spots by dint of being the best available fighters aside from those assigned tasks elsewhere.
Barty had ensured every possible angle was covered. The second he and Dumbledore landed in the graveyard they would be using for the ritual, Barty forced himself and Dumbledore down into a barely-controlled fall: rolling himself underneath the startled, unprepared Headmaster. A split second later, four stunners slammed into Dumbledore's back and he collapsed into unconsciousness. Because he caught the edges of the blasts, so did Barty.
But it was a price he had been willing to pay. There really had been no other way he could think of to transport and then render Dumbledore helpless without a lot of bloodshed and pain. But he had drilled his small group of helpers relentlessly in what to do, so that helped.
Runcorn, the biggest and sturdiest of the three, immediately set to work untangling Barty from Dumbledore and then floated Barty well away from the man. Runcorn then summoned one of his own house elves and told it to inform the group waiting to attack Azkaban to begin their assault. Once Barty was clear, Parkinson spelled the potion into Dumbledore's stomach. It would keep him paralyzed even if he woke unexpectedly.
Then Parkinson and Bletchley stripped Dumbledore bare and spelled a plain brown robe onto him. Once that was done, Dumbledore's robes were searched carefully and everything removed from the pockets in a search for portkeys. The robe and small pile of items were then put under an anti-summoning hex and hidden behind a tall tombstone, out of Dumbledore's line of sight. Then the two men trussed Dumbledore up like a Christmas goose. They also applied a silencing spell to hobble Dumbledore's ability to use wandless magic. They then left him at the foot of one of the graves.
While Parkinson and Bletchley were busy with Dumbledore, Runcorn revived Barty and handed him the polyjuice antidote so that he could resume his actual appearance. Parkinson and Bletchley then headed to the nearby house. Parkinson carefully levitated the enormous cauldron with its partially-done potion. Bletchley carefully carried the infant-sized golem that Voldemort had temporarily transferred himself into, since a whole, living human body could not be put into the resurrection potion.
Barty, meanwhile, arranged the necessary fire and gathered two of the three needed ingredients: a legbone from a grave marked Tom Riddle, and the somewhat desiccated lobe of his own ear. He had cut it off three days ago and left it to drain the blood out of it. Great care had to be taken with the potion, after all. The three necessary ingredients could not be contaminated. In other words, the bone couldn't have flesh or blood attached to it, the flesh couldn't have bone or blood, and the blood couldn't have bone or flesh.
Parkinson put the cauldron on the fire and then stepped back next to Runcorn, with the cauldron between them and Dumbledore. Bletchley took his place on the opposite side of Runcorn, holding Voldemort's blanket-wrapped golem. Barty took his place in front of the cauldron, standing between it and Dumbledore, then revived Dumbledore. It was a bit of a risk, waking him, but Lord Voldemort had been insistent that the man be awake and aware for his resurrection. Barty had agreed. While Dumbledore was definitely an enemy, and taking blood from him while he was knocked out might be enough, the ritual called for 'forcibly taken'. Taking blood from someone unconscious lacked somewhat in 'forcibly'.
Dumbledore seemed calm enough when he woke. After a few moments, however, his situation dawned on him fully. The small group of Death Eaters had the immeasurable pleasure of seeing Albus Dumbledore visibly afraid. Barty could not contain his smile as he stepped forward.
"Welcome, Headmaster. You are to be congratulated. You have been chosen for a most glorious purpose and to witness the greatest event of the age." Barty proclaimed, and waved a hand at their gathering. "The rebirth of the greatest wizard to ever live, Lord Voldemort."
Dumbledore looked like he wanted to argue with that one, of course, but with the silencing spell on him, he couldn't. Barty smiled at him toothily, then turned to Bletchley. "It is time to begin."
Bletchley nodded seriously and then carefully unwrapped Voldemort's golem. He then placed it in the cauldron, careful to let no part of himself touch the liquid within as he did so.
Barty took over from there, checking the bone over one last time to make doubly sure it was devoid of any contaminant. Reassured, he nodded to the others and together they chanted the appropriate lines of the ritual as each of the first two ingredients were added.
Once that was done, Parkinson pulled a small vial of potion, a wickedly sharp knife from its sheath on his belt, and an empty vial out of his pockets. He then approached Dumbledore, nodding to Runcorn as he did so, who also approached. Parkinson spelled the potion, which was an antidote to the paralyzing potion, into Dumbledore's stomach. Only when Dumbledore started to twitch and tried to thrash a few moments later did they continue.
Between them, they then freed one of Dumbledore's arms. Runcorn held tight to the freed limb while Parkinson cut a deep gash in the fleshy underside of Dumbledore's forearm. He let it bleed freely for a moment before he brought the vial under the flow of blood until it was full. Runcorn re-secured Dumbledore's arm and then settled in beside him, wand tip pressed against the man's neck. Parkinson handed the full vial of blood to Barty and then stood on the other side of Dumbledore, his wand tip touching the man's side. Bletchley moved so that the cauldron was no longer between himself and Dumbledore and leveled his wand at the man as well.
As one, the four men chanted the final line of the ritual as Barty poured the blood in. He backed up a few steps as thick white vapor poured out of the cauldron, obscuring their view of what was happening. Barty had to restrain a cheer as the vapor began to thin, revealing the shadowy form of a man rising from the cauldron.
"Robe me." Came the command in a familiar voice.
For once, it was neither filtered through another person's vocal equipment nor weakened by circumstance. This smooth baritone was pure Lord Voldemort. Barty, who had been burdened with appropriate attire for their Lord, stepped forward to obey the command.
"My wand." Lord Voldemort commanded. Barty immediately produced it. It had taken no small amount of trickery almost eleven years ago, to steal Lord Voldemort's wand away from the Ministry. They still believed they had it, lying in a protected spot in the depths of the Department of Mysteries. It was, however, a carefully transfigured stick.
Barty handed the wand over just as the vapor cleared entirely, revealing Lord Voldemort in all his glory to Dumbledore and the triad of Death Eaters.
The man that stepped carefully out of the cauldron could easily be mistaken for a wealthy statesman. He had an almost regal bearing that fit well with aristocratic features and a tall, physically fit body. Black hair with a few touches of silver and a few small wrinkles around the eyes and mouth gave him the appearance of a man in his early forties.
Voldemort paused for a moment, breathing deeply. Finally, after so long, he had a body. And not just any body, but the body that would have been his if he had not been blasted into near-oblivion. "You have done well, Barty." He praised.
Even his mind felt clearer, saner than it had been since he'd heard about the prophecy. Maybe even before that. He felt calm and focused, rather than being half-blinded by rage and paranoia. He regarded Dumbledore for a long moment, then smiled quietly.
"Bring me his belongings." He commanded.
Immediately, Parkinson hustled to where Dumbledore's things had been hidden and brought them to Voldemort, bowing low as he delivered them. Voldemort perused those belongings with a laugh. "A bag of lemon drops, Headmaster? It would seem nothing has changed."
He tossed everything save Dumbledore's wand to the side. The wand, he perused interestedly. "I wonder, Dumbledore, if you realize what it is you have here." He asked.
There was a slight shift in Dumbledore's expression.
"Ah! You do! So much the better." Voldemort said. "I believe it is time to prove, once and for all, that I fear no one." He turned to the others. "Put up an anti-apparation ward, then get outside it." He commanded. "This is between the Headmaster and myself."
The four of them hustled to obey. They grabbed the now-empty cauldron and Dumbledore's remaining things (just in case) and got the heck out of the way.
Once his followers were well clear, Voldemort tossed Dumbledore's wand to him lazily, flicking his own wand at the same time to remove the silencing spell that Dumbledore had been under all this time.
"I am afraid I must deprive you of the full trappings due an Honor Duel, Headmaster." Voldemort said. "Though I consider it thus."
Dumbledore got himself free of the restraints he'd been put under and flicked a spell at Voldemort, who dodged. "Why would you, Tom? You have no honor to defend."
"Thanks in large part to you." Voldemort returned, slashing his wand diagonally from left shoulder to right hip in front of himself, loosing a wide, vividly purple ribbon of magic.
Unable to dodge such a wide-spread spell, Dumbledore yanked one of the nearby tombstones out of the ground and levitated it in front of himself to absorb the spell, then sent a spell the yellow-green of old bruises at Voldemort. "Tut tut, Tom. Blaming me for your fall into the Dark."
Voldemort laughed as he spun away from the spell. "Oh no, Dumbledore. I'm not blaming you for that. Why would I? I quite like the Dark Arts. No, I blame you for denying me my rightful inheritance. The heir line of Slytherin may be long gone, but as the sole living descendant of pure Slytherin stock, I ought to have inherited whatever remains of Slytherin's earthly goods, and you knew that. But you kept your silence and by the time I found out about it, it was too late." Voldemort stopped toying with Dumbledore at that point. He aimed a spell chain at Dumbledore.
Spell chains were an advanced technique used in duels of all descriptions. They were groups of spells that were tailored to the strength and knowledge level of the caster. Each spell's wand movements flowed immediately into the next, allowing for little to no gap in the onslaught of spells aimed at an opponent. Chains could be designed for nearly any purpose; from harassment, to battering down an especially strong shield spell.
Of course, Voldemort's spell chains were nowhere near 'petty harassment'. Blood boiling, entrail-exploding, skinning, and turn-you-inside-out spells were the least of what he now aimed at Dumbledore. Of course, Dumbledore didn't exactly take this lying down, launching his own spell chain, though his kept firmly to so- called Light spells, rather than Voldemort's Dark Arts chains.
Dumbledore quickly found himself in a bit of trouble, which he did not understand. He and Voldemort had, after all, crossed wands during Voldemort's first reign. Voldemort had always thrown a handful of spells (almost always the Unforgivables) then run; which had led to the whole 'only one Voldemort feared' thing.
Voldemort was quick to pick up on Dumbledore's increasing confusion. He kept right on throwing spells, but since neither of them had to speak the spells aloud, he was free to taunt Dumbledore some more.
"You poor deluded Gryffindor fool." Voldemort laughed. "I am *Slytherin*. Not just by Sorting, but by blood. Playing a long game is second nature to me." He snorted as he dodged a spell that he couldn't shield against and then continued. "Playing at being afraid of you gave the common masses hope, you fool. Allowed them to think there was some shred of possibility of salvation. It also kept them looking to *you* for that salvation, rather than taking up arms themselves."
For the most part, of course; it had reduced and concentrated the opposition Voldemort had faced. Those few who could not abide standing aside went to Dumbledore and followed his lead. This had given Voldemort only two places to watch (the DMLE being the other), instead of having to be on the watch for multiple resistance groups all over the place.
"And killing you will destroy that hope, leaving them leaderless and breaking their spirits, making it all the easier to bring the Wizarding world under my control with minimal bloodshed." Voldemort said.
He knew things were nowhere near as assured as all of that, especially with Black set against him, but it didn't really matter. What mattered was breaking Dumbledore's confidence and concentration. Making him falter and hesitate, if even for a fraction of a second. Sadly, Dumbledore was not so easily sidetracked as that and their contest continued.
It wasn't until about ten minutes later, when the entire area they'd been restricted to had been laid to waste that Voldemort finally got his opening. Nothing remained in that area other than dirt, stone dust, and the warped, twisted remains of trees and bushes they'd each used against the other. The opening had come solely due to the difference in their ages. Dumbledore was just over a hundred years old. Voldemort was thirty-six years younger than Dumbledore, and the difference in their energy levels and stamina were finally telling.
Voldemort finally managed to clip the flagging Dumbledore with a bone-breaking hex in the middle of one of his spell chains. Dumbledore went down with a cry. Before he could recover himself, Voldemort was on him, battering him with spells. Unable to divert any spell work to healing his broken leg, Dumbledore was limited to staying more or less exactly where he'd fallen, shielding himself from Voldemort's spells instead of dodging most of them. Which meant his ability to counter with offensive spell chains of his own was severely undercut.
A few minutes after that, Voldemort finally managed to overwhelm Dumbledore's defenses completely, managing to sever his wand-arm at the elbow. Voldemort immediately severed the other arm in like manner, rendering Dumbledore completely helpless. He wandered over to Dumbledore's severed wand arm and plucked the Elder Wand from the lifeless fingers' grip, tucking it safely into a pocket.
"And now you come to understand, if all too late, that you had lost before you had even begun to fight me all those years ago. You are a fool, Dumbledore, and you will die a fool." Voldemort said. Then he turned to his followers.
"I want his face recognizable and he is mine to kill. Other than that, you may do with him as you will." Voldemort told them.
All four of them lit up and immediately pulled their wands, converging on Dumbledore. They had a brief conference, to decide who got to go first and what they were going to do, then immediately began casting at Dumbledore.
For over an hour, agonized screams, gurgles, and eerie, hair-raising silence alternated amidst the constant flash of spellfire. Eventually, the four men got bored and drifted away from Dumbledore's twisted, broken, but somehow still conscious form, one by one. When Barty, the last to get bored, finally walked away, Voldemort nodded to the four of them.
"Gather everything and apparate it to headquarters." He commanded. "If the Azkaban group has not returned, apparate there to see what's going on and render assistance if it's required."
"As you command, My Lord." Barty said, bowing low before he and the others hurried to do Voldemort's bidding.
Only once they were gone did Voldemort turn to the whimpering wreck that was all that was left of the so-called Leader of the Light. "Farewell, Dumbledore." One last spell and the last of Dumbledore's blood spilled into the dirt. Voldemort didn't use Avada Kedavra on him. It would have lessened the impact when Dumbledore was found. After all, everyone knew there was no countering that particular spell. That it had not been used on Dumbledore at any point would make it very, very clear that he had been beaten in a 'fair' fight.
Once Dumbledore was well and truly dead, Voldemort gathered him and his belongings and took down the anti-apparation spell that had kept them penned into the area. He then apparated to a seldom-used back alley in Hogsmeade that Barty had sussed out earlier in the month for precisely this purpose. Voldemort arranged Dumbledore's body artfully, then pulled the Elder Wand out of his pocket. It hummed briefly against his hand. Voldemort smiled before raising it to cast one last spell.
"Morsmordre!"
Voldemort stayed only long enough to hear the first terrified scream before he apparated out.
August 2, 1992 Location Unknown
By the time Voldemort returned to Malfoy Manor, the place was all but overrun with people. Fenrir and his small band of werewolves were standing against one wall, out of the general flow of traffic, while the vampire clan that had answered Voldemort's call to arms flitted about, assisting the marked Death Eaters and unmarked supporters who had gone on the Azkaban raid.
Voldemort took a careful tally, grimacing slightly at the level of damage done. He'd expected something of the sort - they were too few to have escaped unscathed - but he still didn't like seeing it. Most of the raiders were sporting some sort of damage, many of them in quite bad shape. The escapees, of course, were all ragged and skeletally thin, alongside being injured from assisting in their own escape.
Voldemort quietly began to pass among them, offering a touch, a quiet word, and in a few cases, a healing spell or counter to a spell that needed one before the damage could be healed. He accepted their groveling and worshipful praise as his rightful due. The hope and joy in most of the escapees' faces was particularly gratifying.
He lingered longest by Bellatrix. She had been, alongside Barty, both his most loyal follower and his most dangerous one. She was, unfortunately, completely insane, and had been long before her stint in Azkaban. Voldemort supposed it was the price the Black family had paid over the centuries for their inbreeding. Azkaban, it seemed, had made the situation worse. He was going to have to find a way to keep her under control, or she would cost him far more than she was worth to him. Fortunately, he had a number of possible ways to affect some control on her actions.
"You must rest." He soothed her, after her rambling had wound down a bit. "Rest and recover. There will be time enough for you to wreak vengeance on those that incarcerated you."
He gave her arm one last pat and then moved away to consult with the most able Healer among their number. Blast Snape and his treachery. He would have been incredibly useful. But a decade as Dumbledore's lapdog seemed to have muzzled the potion master's bite.
"Report." He commanded.
"The bulk of the raiders will be back in fighting trim by week's end." The man told him. "A couple will need a few days more than that, I think. The ex-prisoners, on the other hand, won't be fully back on their feet until the end of summer. They're going to need some time to put on some weight and overcome the worst of the dementors' effects on them."
"Obtain whatever they need, by whatever needs you must." Voldemort commanded. "If anything is beyond your immediate reach, inform me at once and I will see to it that it is obtained."
The man bowed deeply. "As you command, Lord Voldemort."
Voldemort then gathered those of the company that were uninjured or had already been patched up and led them into a nearby room.
"They will attempt to track us down. This place will be under Fidelius, but I want a guard in place at all times regardless. If you see anyone from the Ministry or whom is known to be in Dumbledore's Order or Black's alliance, report their presence immediately but do not engage them."
"As you command, Lord Voldemort." They fairly chorused, quickly conferring among themselves in order to set up a guard rotation.
Voldemort, for his part, walked outside. The place wasn't under a Fidelius yet. He hadn't been able to do the spell before he'd been re-bodied, and had not wanted to have one of his followers do it. After all, they could be killed at any point, at which point everyone that knew the secret would become a Secret Keeper in their own right, making the Fidelius all but useless. On the other hand, Voldemort knew he could not be truly killed. Busted down to vapor, yes; killed, no. The Fidelius would remain unbroken with him as Secret Keeper.
It helped that this place had been in preparation as a future stronghold when he'd gone after the Potter boy. It had taken remarkably little work over the last few weeks to get the place completely ready, both for habitation and for the Fidelius spell. Better yet, it had remained undiscovered by Dumbledore or the Ministry.
Much of the work done at their new headquarters had been preparations for the Fidelius spell. The boundaries of the area to be under the Fidelius spell had to be clearly marked in some manner. The Death Eaters had to make sure that all four sides of the property had been carefully trimmed such that trees and bushes did not overlap with unprotected neighbors either above ground or below. A shallow, narrow trench had been dug in the grass, to further demarcate the boundaries and prevent even the grass from tangling with unprotected neighbors.
The incantation to seal headquarters under a Fidelius was but a moment's work for Voldemort. He gave a pleased nod when he felt the spell snap into place, and heard a rush of confusion from inside the building. He smiled slightly and headed back inside.
It was the work of a few moments to calm everyone down. He then wrote down the necessary information on a single sheet of parchment and handed it from person to person, charging them to memorize the information. By the time he'd gotten to the second person, word of what had happened was working its way through the building.
By the time that was done and Voldemort was able to incinerate the piece of parchment, things had calmed down considerably. Many of the injured were asleep. Those that were not and were mobile gathered in the dining area to partake of a late dinner.
"Tonight heralds the beginning of the end for the Ministry." Voldemort said. "We will face challenges yet, but our triumph is ordained by the very stars above. Stay loyal and true, do your best, and we will be the masters of the Wizarding world within a year."
There was a lot of cheering at that prospect. "Now, eat and restore your strength. Tomorrow, the real work begins." Voldemort told them, then snapped his fingers.
The table groaned under the weight of the food platters that appeared a half-second after that snap. The men and women around the table piled their plates with food and began to eat. At first, it was silent, less because no one had anything to say and more because they were leery of Voldemort's mood.
But gradually, as they began to divine that Voldemort was in a very good mood, they began to talk to their neighbors. The more Voldemort held his own tongue and looked quietly pleased, the more they talked and the more boisterous they got.
Voldemort knew it would take some time for them to forget his capriciousness and vicious behavior prior to his reduction to a vapor. It would be a fine balancing act, ensuring that they still feared him and obeyed without question, without resorting to the unpredictable behavior he'd once indulged in.
Voldemort silently resolved to do some research, and try to find an answer to why he'd become so unhinged a bit over a decade ago and why he was so clear-headed now. It was a definite mystery and something he needed to understand. That way, if he was going to eventually return to his unpredictable ways, he could at least try to do something about it.
He stayed quiet while his followers celebrated their victorious reunion in grand style, getting as much enjoyment from their merriment as if he had participated. Eventually, they wound down. Once everyone had eaten their fill, Voldemort regained their attention.
"Now, to matters of business. Lucius." Voldemort said, speaking to the pale blonde, who had fortunately been one of the ones to escape major injury. "You will continue your efforts to stymie Black in the Wizengamot. I do not expect you to succeed so do not fear failure. Merely make it as difficult for him as possible to get anywhere with his proposed reforms."
Lucius bowed, accepting his orders.
"The healers and potion makers among our number will continue to attend to the needs of our injured comrades. Barty, I would like for you and the most capable of our followers to organize a retraining program for everyone as they regain fitness. Those of our people who were in Azkaban will be quite rusty with their skills and in need of a refresher, and the badly injured will need to regain their form."
Barty nodded.
"Fenrir, I want you and your pack to sow as much chaos as you can among both the muggle and magical communities. Bite at will but do not kill." Voldemort commanded. "The same applies to Johan and our Vampire brethren." Voldemort nodded to the leader of the vampire clan, who nodded back in return.
"I want recruitment stepped up." Voldemort said. "Those of you with children of age will bring them before me a week from now at a place I will set up, to be assessed for their suitability for our cause. They will *not* be forced." He commanded. "Unwilling recruits are poor recruits. If they do not wish to serve me, they will not be punished. They will merely be obliviated of the knowledge of having met with me and allowed to return to their lives." That would, hopefully, reassure his people as to the fates of their offspring. "Only those loyal to the cause will be brought here to Headquarters and marked."
"The Ministry will have its hands full trying to regain control of the dementors, which will aid our efforts." Voldemort continued. "But I want as many of the Dark creatures committed to our cause as we can manage, preferably all of them. While Fenrir and Johan are sowing chaos, the rest of you at this table will begin to gather them. You are also permitted to cause whatever chaos you can manage while going about your task. There is to be no killing of anyone magical, even halfbloods and mudbloods. Every drop of magical blood in existence is precious, and enough of it has been spilled already. That being said, you may kill muggles with impunity."